That One Story About John
by red owl feathers
Summary: Young Sherlock Holmes is a proper genius, but people start to doubt his mind. Is John Watson real, or is it all just a mind palace trick? An illusion? Is John just a character Sherlock made up for his own purposes or does he actually exist and is it about time for Sherlock to meet him? We are about to find out. (Teenlock with a chance of Johnlock)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: hello boys and girls and others!  
>this is basically my first fanfiction i post on here and i am unsure if that was a right decision or not *sweats nervously*<br>i would appreciate constructive comments so much and if i have made any mistakes, please feel free to tell me (y'know if anybody ever reads this)  
>you are all such precious muffins!<br>i am sending you lots of love from my computer.  
>- red owl feathers.<br>P.S. i do not intend to have Sherlock as a mentally unstable figure. the way i portray him in this chapter is only to describe how he visualises John and how the others get it all wrong. i am sorry if i have written something unpleasant, please tell me if i have.  
>P.P.S. the first two chapters kind of give you the wrong idea of what the fanfic is about, so if you are patient enough, read on, kind reader, read on and enjoy, because it <em>does<em> get better**

* * *

><p>CHAPTER ONE.<p>

"How are you today, brother dear?"

There was a grunt in response.

"Mycroft, what are you doing here? Oh and please, do tell that bloody nurse to get the food tray away."

Mycroft sighed and turned his umbrella in his hands.

"You _have_ to eat eventually, Sherlock."

The younger boy continued reading the Daily Mail.

"Not necessarily." He lingered on the first n and turned his gaze to the next page.

"You still haven't answered my question." Mycroft looked at his brother sternly. "What did the doctors say?"

"Funny thing, doctors." Sherlock put the paper down and met Mycroft's eyes for the first time since he had entered the room.  
>"Always so ghastly boring and sometimes completely <em>wrong<em>. "

He shot Mycroft a look. "John dated a girl who wanted to be a doctor once."

Mycroft blinked at the mention of John's name.

"Ah yes, that… John fellow "He grimaced "he's still around?"

"Yes. " Sherlock got up from his bed and his hospital gown stretched onto his tall body, the wrinkled bits leaving marks on the pale fabric. He walked over to the window.

"He's- "

"Not real? Yes, everybody in this hospital apparently has the job of telling me so. Even that patient that left two days ago. He should know. Compulsive liar. Cheating on his wife also."

He touched the ends of the blinds with the tips of his fingers. His head was cocked to one side.

"I still don't think it's only in my head, Mycroft. He seems too real. Too… vivid, at least." He frowned and suddenly turned around "And why is everyone treating me like a child or at least a person who has difficulties understanding?"

"You will soon no more have the privilege of those people taking care of you. You will be going back to school-"

"Privilege?" Sherlock demurred.

"-in two weeks."

"That's fantastic." The boy grunted sarcastically.

"But, you'll be moved. To a boarding school."

"Well, that's news."

Sherlock didn't seem quite interested in the conversation anymore. He was reading his paper again and took a pen from the drawer beside his bed and encircled something.

"Baker and Stubbs Boarding School to be exact. I have to get that." The older Holmes brother was referring to his phone that was vibrating in his pocket.

Sherlock wasn't paying attention to his conversation and Mycroft seemed to want that to happen because he had retrieved to a corner of the room. His brother however, overheard something about the "Korean elections" and "national importance". Boring, as ever.

"I have to go."

"Okay."

"Take your meds."

"Manageable."

"Don't blow up the rooms with chemicals you find in the supply room."

"A bit burdensome. And boring."

"_Goodbye, _Sherlock."

The boy already had his hands brought together at the fingertips under his chin. Mycroft just exited the room.

Meanwhile, in Sherlock's head, a café came to the picture. Opposite him a boy was standing in a chair. He had sandy blond hair and big blue eyes. A plate with some dish was positioned in front of him and he was holding a fork. Steam arose from a mug and the liquid inside was probably tea. Peppermint? Logical, it was John's favorite.

John.

"Ah. Glad to have you back." He smiled and took a bite of his meal.

"Mycroft was just around." Sherlock muttered in an explanation.

"Oh, what did he say?" John's words were muffled because he was chewing.

"He told me not to blow anything up."

"That's boring."

Sherlock chuckled. Soon enough John started doing the same.

"So anything interesting?" the first asked out of politeness mainly.

"Well, given that I am inside that ridiculous head of yours I am never bored. I met a man, in fact. He was German. Probably lived around the beginning of the 20th century. His name was… Fritz? Fritz something? He seemed nice at first. We had some tea. Then he tried to kill me with a knife." John raised his eyebrow in question.

"Fritz Haarmann. The vampire of Hanover. Killed around 27 young boys and men between 1918 and 1925." Sherlock gulped down some of his lemonade.

"Cool." John took his cup and brought it to his lips, but before he took a sip, he asked "Just so we know, what happens when I, hypothetically speaking, die? Do I come back to life or…?"

"I don't know."

"Should we try it out?"

"How about no." Sherlock shook his head a little.

They were walking down the street.

"What do the doctors say?"

"Are you related to Mycroft in some way, he asked me the same thing."

John snickered "I'm pretty sure I'm not related to Mycroft."

Their shoes hit the ground as they paced down the street.

"They say I have schizophrenic tendencies." Sherlock put his hands in his pockets.

"That's rubbish."

"I know."

"People with schizophrenia tend to have problems with thinking straight and often feel unsure and intimidated by other people. As far as I know you're by far the most brilliant and arrogant person to grace the world."  
>He turned to his side where Sherlock was frowning a little and the corners of his mouth turned slightly up.<p>

"Anyway I'm going back to school." Sherlock chided.

"You don't like school, I'm guessing?" John implied.

"Obviously. Everyone is very boring and petty. I don't care about who was prime minister 200 years ago or who is sleeping with whom."

John hummed something and cleared his throat.

They were sitting on a bench.

"In fact they're moving me to another school."

"Sherlock, dear, would you like me to take care of the tray for you?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked a couple of times. It was almost dark outside. He realized the voice was coming from a third party and saw a flash of white, which was one of the nurses. She was standing beside his nightstand.

"Yes, please." He murmured.  
>It was around 8 o'clock already. Time flew either very fast or very slowly in his mind palace in spite of the real world.<p>

He told the nurse to turn on the lights in the room and took his newspaper again.  
>Mycroft had told him not to call Lestrade and ask about cases, but Graham's presence was to be felt nevertheless.<p>

A small picture was staring at him from the newspaper's sixth page. The article was about some serial suicides the Yard had been investing recently.

They were baffled. Of course they were. They always were when something interesting finally showed up. Sherlock sighed in frustration. Something was happening at last and he couldn't have anything to do with it. Instead he had to sit in bed and read about it in the papers that had no important information. You could never trust the media.

Tomorrow he was going to think about the case. Probably go out in the garden, although it seemed like a stupid thing to do. He prayed to god Mycroft wouldn't come to visit.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: yo this is another chapter like a day later. truth be told it is currently ****_five am _****and I couldn't sleep. ****sorry.****  
>~red owl feathers<strong>

**P.S. this chapter has been edited**

* * *

><p><span><em>"I guess I need someone that could help me prove my points by providing simple comparison. Of observational kind." <em>

* * *

><p>Two weeks had gone by before Sherlock knew it. He was having mixed feelings about going to school again. It didn't seem like the best thing to spend your time doing but it was still better than this hospital.<p>

He had a meeting with the doctor first and he knew it would be a pain in the-

"Sherlock Holmes? I am supposed to take you downstairs now. If you could come with me."  
>A nurse entered the room. The boy was sitting on his bed with his bag that contained his things next to him.<p>

"You can take that with you." The woman pointed towards the latter with her bony finger.

She was old, about 55; her hair was turning gray way too fast. _Probably a heavy smoker _Sherlock thought. It was 12:37 o'clock and her lunch break had just ended minutes ago. She has smoked 3.5 cigarettes already, the remains of the third one were thrown in a garbage can in the garden when she hastily looked at her watch and moved it with her left hand slightly to the inside of her right hand. Two daughters, old, in college. Money struggle, but she's still buying those cigarettes. Doesn't live with her husband, he's probably dead; she doesn't wear her ring on her ring finger anymore. It could be that she has given it to a cleaning service or is simply keeping it safe at home but you can see the place where it was before, it being a little bit thinner than the rest of her finger. She's not sentimental enough to keep wearing her ring, but she keeps her smoking habit, because the husband had it too, they most probably smoked together. _I bet she still buys the same brand of cigarettes, too. _Sherlock thought.

Finally, the younger Holmes took one last look at the room he had spent all this hateful time in. The light was lazily shining through the windows and the drapes and made his and the nurse's shadows longer. He knew it would be the very, very last time he will ever see that room. And he couldn't have cared less.

They walked down corridors and took an elevator and pushed open big glass doors and Sherlock wished they could keep doing that but they reached the doctor's office way too soon.

The nurse opened the door and instructed Sherlock to go inside. He took a seat into a pleasantly cool, black leather chair after the doctor had greeted him. Sherlock's bag was dumped on the floor next to him.

The doctor cleared his throat and lowered his round glasses further down his nose. His office smelled like polished wood and old books and lemon grass. It was dark because of all the furniture made out of wood and the air was cool, which made Sherlock, overall, like the place.

"So, Sherlock, how are you doing?" The man was around his fifties with an almost bald head, a big belly and a brilliantly white doctor's lab coat. He asked the typical question you ask when you have your patients over. How clichéd. Nobody seemed to figure that some people couldn't respond to that question properly because they didn't know the answer.

"I'm fine, thank you." Sherlock raised his chin a few millimeters and stood up straighter, like Mommy had taught him.

"Today you can go home and I think you've been waiting for that during your whole stay" The man laughed. He wasn't so bad. "So, do you mind us talking about this John figure?" Direct. Sherlock liked the doctor already. Maybe he wasn't totally incompetent. He had opened a folder to look up the name.

"Depends on what you're going to say." Sherlock didn't show a single tinge of emotion nor one of a reaction, really.

The doctor's lips twitched into a little smile.

"I wanted to ask you if he is still there."

"If by there you mean my mind palace then yes."

"You keep using that phrase- mind palace. Would you care to elaborate? It seems like an interesting way to handle your thoughts." The doctor relaxed in his seat and brought his fingers together under his chin.

"I have a mind palace to _store_ thoughts mostly. Things that are important. Very important. People use their mind to remember all kinds of rubbish." Here, Sherlock seemed a bit more enthusiastic. Talkimg about his mind palace, his deductional skills always made him look like a five year old child, telling his mum about a snail he found in the park. But of course, you could never compare deduction to snails. They were, in fact, the complete opposites.

The doctor was rubbing his chin with his thumb and he seemed to be listening.

"And why do you think you constructed John as a character in your mind palace?"

Here was the actual question. The bull's eye. Even Sherlock wasn't sure of the answer. He seemed to have only either real or very rarely fictional people in his mind palace. But never imaginary ones.

"I guess…" he began but tried to construct a sentence first and then speak it. That's what smart people did.

The doctor was looking at him with anticipation.

"I guess I need someone that could help me prove my points by providing simple comparison. Of observational kind."

"I see." The doctor's gaze was directed to the ceiling. He chose to be direct. "Did you maybe need him to boost up your confidence about things? As a conductor of light?" he looked at Sherlock. "Maybe he always admitted that you were of greater intelligence than him. From what I've read in this file, he seems like the type to do so."

Sherlock swallowed. Of course, the doctor was right. Sherlock seemed very confident about himself in front of people. He was, although, very surprised when those other people complimented him on his brain work. Most of them would tell him that he's rude or obnoxious, some would argue with him and others would claim that he's a freak.

"Maybe." He said casually. "In the times that we are in each other's company he does make compliments but he also sometimes insults me."

"And do those insults hurt you in some way?"

"Not really. I mean I get that a lot from other people too."

The doctor nodded in understanding. He himself was an object of Sherlock's deducing skills earlier on. _Two divorces. Living alone with his dog. They sleep in one bed._

"I suppose you don't care when others try to be rude to you? Perhaps you dismiss it."

"Mostly."

"Do you dismiss John's comments of that sort?"

Sherlock thought for a second. "Not exactly. He doesn't actually mean to insult me with them, it is just what his opinion on me is. And I guess most of the time he's right."

The doctor wrote something in his file.

"How exactly do you provide comparison in real life, in front of people, so your theories seem plausible to others if you use a character only you visualize?"

The doctor was asking some good questions, thank heavens.

"Well, I sort of need comparison for myself sometimes. You know, John says something and that thing clears up my thoughts and ends up being a clue. Comparisson was probably not the best choice of words." Sherlock admitted.

"But the things John says are controlled by your own subconsciousness. Is it maybe that some things that you know but you don't realize you know just pop up in the form of John Watson's speech?"

Sherlock was amazed. The doctor was definitely getting all the points here. The boy was offended, though. Things you know but you don't know you know? Rubbish.

Sherlock chewed on the inner side of his cheek and tried to look as nonchalant as possible. "I assume." Subconcsiousness. The idea seemed silly.

The next question was fairly unexpected.

"Do you plan on lowering the frequency of your conversations with him?" The doctor looked Sherlock straight in the eye, their rolles reversed. It was usually Sherlock who was making the direct eye contact, as if he saw through your mind and your soul and your body.

"No." Sherlock declared with a glint in his eye that showed this was his final answer.

"What exactly do you do in his company in your mind palace?"

"We chat about things. Solve a case or two" Sherlock suddenly remembered and a grin stretched onto his face "The one with the elephant in the room was particularly interesting." The elephant was an extremely pleasant creature and Sherlock named her Ashurri, after a Japanese poet, who wrote really inspirational and jolly poems.

The doctor seemed confused so he took a look at the folder and then he nodded and sunk back into his chair. After this thing which Sherlock already thought usual for the doctor, the boy found an opportunity and grabbed it like a person grabs the last pizza slice.

"If I see your watch correctly it must be time for me to go." Sherlock said after about twenty minutes of boring John-talk. As if he's never heard all that before. The boy sat up even straighter in his chair, ready to bolt off as soon as he was properly dismissed.

After looking at the clock himself, the doctor agreed. "Indeed. But first I have to tell you some things you're going to have to do."

Sherlock sighed. He united all his inner forces not to be rude and just go at his own will.

"First of all, I see you view John as your friend. But you talk about him as if he is a real person and I understand he's told you a lot of things throughout time. I see nothing wrong with that as long as you know he is a creation of your mind. His doings, his speech, they are all leaded by _your_ mind. And that some of the things you talk about may not be accurate."

"I hardly view him as _a friend._ And I know he is not actually a living human being, doctor, I'm not an idiot."

"I never said you were. But try to seek the friendship of other people and try to do the things you do with John with them."

At that Sherlock couldn't keep himself from scoffing. "Come on, who would want me for a friend?"

"You'll be surprised." The doctor smiled at Sherlock. "I see here you're moving to another school?"

"That is correct."

"New beginnings are always good. Try to find some friends there. And keep in touch if something happens."

Even if the man was nice, even if he had made good remarks earlier, it was on the verge of unbearable for Sherlock to sit there for another second when he could finally be _free._

"I will." He probably won't.

"Have a nice day, Sherlock. And good luck." The doctor stood up and Sherlock did the same. They shook hands briefly and walked to the door. A nurse waited for the boy in the corridor so she could take him outside.

What a load of rubbish. Make friends? Mycroft would faint if he even knew that was the advice that was given to his little brother. Yet again, Mycroft Holmes knew everything.

Speaking of Mycroft, Sherlock felt his phone buzz against his leg. He had received a text. The screen was hard to read because of the sunlight, but the tiny, black letters were still distinct from the rest of it.

_A car is coming to the hospital to get you. Be there in five minutes.  
>- MH<em>

Sherlock was finally going home.

In precisely five minutes, an expensive black car pulled up and Sherlock immediately jogged towards it and jumped in.

Mycroft's assistant was sitting in the back and was occupied with her usual task. She was typing rapidly on her phone, hitting two keys at a time and Sherlock wondered what she was always doing on that blackberry.

The car started moving away from thhe hospital and on the first traffic light, Sherlock decided.

"Can you drive me to Waterloo Bridge please?" Sherlock said to the driver.

"You're supposed to go home." The woman sitting next to him objected.

"I know. Is there any chance you won't tell your boss where I'm going? Wait no, that's a stupid question you already have, haven't you?" Sherlock shot her a glare. She gave him a half-acknowledging look and returned to her phone.

For the rest of the trip he was looking out the window and trying to deduce drivers and pedestrians when they stopped in front of a red light.

_Three cats._ He noted for a twenty something year old girl that was walking down the street in her sweatpants. _Boyfriend just left her for another girl. Presumably one of her friends. She didn't care about him that much though. It's not her sweatpants she's wearing and she seems visibly well rested and not intoxicated. Then there's her watch._

He wondered shortly why she didn't leave him in the first place. Their relationship was probably one of those where both parties are very tired of each other but are scared to leave the other because then they'd be alone. "That's rather stupid" Sherlock thought

"Sorry?" Anthea (that's what the assistant told him she was called although Sherlock completely doubted it) looked up from her phone for the first time.

"Did I just say that out loud?" Sherlock asked in return.

Anthea nodded and went back to typing.

Sherlock went back to thinking.

'_Why do people choose to have it worse than needed, just because they are afraid they won't find any better?' _he asked himself. Sherlock rarely thought about the thinking process of others but when it happened he realized how stupid the things that cross their minds are and how dull it all actually was.

They arrived at their destination and the driver pulled to a stop. Sherlock bolted out of the car at once and jumped over the fence like a cat. Before he could do anything else the car window rolled down.

"What are you doing?" Anthea asked with one eyebrow raised.

"Investigating." Sherlock smirked and turned around.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Hello again! I'm late again. I have no actual excuse; I just assumed that no one really cares much for updates. But nevertheless, here is some more of the adventures of our beloved Sherlock.  
>I will try to update more often. I hope you will enjoy! In this chapter, we're introducing some familiar faces to the story.<strong>

**you are all precious muffins**  
><strong>~red owl feathers<strong>

**P.S. I have edited this chapter, written new things and changed some others, so do not wonder if some things get repeated in the next chapters! As soon as I finish editing them, there will be no errors (hopefully)[(if there are, im just a shit writer)].**

* * *

><p><span><em>" Older men minus a bold spot and weird, unfitting suits were strange, but also interesting to stumble upon. "<br>_

* * *

><p>It was a Saturday morning and Sherlock was lying in his bed with his hands over his stomach. He was staring at the ceiling and had a book beside him. It was half opened so that the pages faced the bed. The reader had headphones in his ears. His room smelled like apple and cinnamon and tiny rays of white sunlight peeked through Sherlock's curtains, annoying him more and more by the minute. An hour ago, he hadn't even noticed the tiny, rebellious strip of annoyance but since he had taken a glimpse at the window, it felt like it was blinding him. Sherlock was too lazy to get up and fix the curtains, so he remained with a bitter expression on his face.<p>

There was a muffled noise coming from his left and Sherlock saw his brother enter the room. He was fully clothed in a suit with a vest and a red tie with a matching handkerchief in his vest pocket, Anthea had picked it out for him yesterday. Sherlock _saw _rather than heard Mycroft say something to him that he couldn't quite make out. _Belfast? Dwayne D. Spinach? _Sherlock hadn't really mastered the art of lip reading. Yet. When he decided whatever Mycroft was saying wasn't important enough for him to take his headphones out of his ears his brother did it for him instead.

"I said, we are having breakfast in twenty minutes, if you would care to go downstairs." he did that thing with his face that showed displeasure. Also known as Mycroft's normal grimace he wore as an accessory 24/7.

"And since when do you come for breakfast?" Sherlock shot him a questioning look.

Mycroft only rolled his eyes and walked out the room. How very _Mycroft _of him. You would think with him being twenty three years old and an important piece of the British government, he wouldn't bother to annoy his sibling so much with his presence. But yet again, Mycroft mostly took care of the younger Holmes, even if the latter didn't like it.

Sherlock decided he would do as Mycroft told him, just this once and changed his shirt before exiting his room. The smell of fabric softener joined him as he bounced down the stairs and to the kitchen. Sherlock's curly, black hair was incredibly tousled over his face. One side was pressed completely flat on his head and the other compensated for it.

"What in god's name died on your head this morning, Sherlock?!" His mother looked over at him as she was preparing the food. She could never handle that bob of his.

"Always glad to receive a complimenting comment in the morning, mother." Her son answered sleepily. His mum looked at him with her devilish look and continued washing the vegetables.  
>Siger Holmes, a somewhat silly man (but in a good, wonderful way), was sitting at the table with his morning newspaper, like he did every weekend. This tradition of his had been around since Mycroft could remember, Sherlock had once heard, and Mycroft could remember things and days <em>way back.<em> Just like their aunt Lysa, who always took things to seriously and gave people her psycho look.

Siger cleaned his throat, which was a sign he was about to start a conversation, or attempt at doing so. "So, Sherlock, you're going to school in two days. Don't you need some supplies, we could go shopping today?" His father looked at him over his newspaper. Sherlock shook his head and told him that he had some stuff he could use in his room. Papers, notebooks, pens, his desk was never clean and was completely covered with those.

"And, Sherlock, darling, don't forget to call. If someone has my boy mistreated of any sort I swear I shall go completely insane." His Mum warned him over the sizzling bacon in the pan and lifted her eyebrows, yet another typical thing.

"It would be so enjoyable if you ranted in the school again." Mycroft was looking at the newspaper over his dad's shoulder.

"Myc, it would be so enjoyable to have you do the dishes after breakfast again instead."

"Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could please struggle to the end of it."

"Alright, girls, settle down." There was a slide of a chair and Mr. Holmes got up and started taking out plates. He seemed to put an end to the little domestic going on, mainly because he was the sanest person in the Holmes family. "I read about those cases Lestrade has going on, what about that Sherlock? Seemed interesting enough for you I reckon." Sherlock loved his dad, really.

"Well, if I have to be frank, it was intriguing. But" His voice raised a note "I was told not to get involved for a while." Sherlock shot his brother a glare and squinted a little. When Sherlock loved to be dramatic, he always used exaggerated moves and expressions, which made Mycroft sigh and roll his eyes, like some really old, really sarcastic grandpa (which description Mycroft covered only 54 percent).

"Will you still have the possibility of working on cases while in school, dear?" His mother was putting the food into dishes. Really nice smelling food.

Ah, the school subject again. They never do shut up about that. Sherlock was irritated but decided to just go along with it.

"I don't know yet. Mycroft over here probably has talked to the headmaster and threatened to have him sacked forever if they don't treat me right." He motioned to his brother sitting opposite him on their round table.

"I have done no such thing." Mycroft objected. He was constantly struggling not to mock Sherlock in any way. He thought he was a good brother.

"You're going to have a roommate and all, aren't you? That's sort of exciting, isn't it?" His dad shot Sherlock a pityingly hopeful look, as if he didn't know Sherlock wasn't a people's person.

"Not really. They probably will have me put alone, people sometimes get to choose the person they room with and probably no one is going to choose me." Sherlock cringed at the sound of his words, because even though he spoke them casually, their meaning was painfully clichéd.

"Nobody there knows you yet, don't make such conclusions." Violet Holmes assured him.

Siger looked positively excited, he always resembled a dog that thought it was a puppy and had floppy ears. "Well, not nobody. Gregory's son is going to that school. That's what got us looking at the brochures in the first place." Mycroft shrugged as a plate landed in front of his elbows. He had his chin propped on one hand, his suit was a bit too tight on him again and it was stretched on his forearm. _Too much cake _Sherlock thought.

"Who's Gregory?" Sherlock seemed confused.

Mr. Holmes gasped before he took a bite off a sausage. "Oh that's right. Greg is a nice lad, I'm sure his son resembles him in a good way." He smiled his kind, a little goofy at times smile and his elder son nodded. His younger son's eyes looked at all three of them confusedly.

"Who the hell is- oh never mind."

Two days had flown away way too fast and it was time for Sherlock to finally accept the fact he was going to interact with other people and face oblivion. What was the whole point of going to school? He didn't understand it even a little. If you knew everything or learned it at home why should you put yourself through hours and hours of boring lessons between four walls with all those idiots you are supposed to make friends with?

And what was even worse than spending tedious amounts of time in a _boarding school- Mycroft_ was taking him with the car. Sherlock's suitcases were in the trunk and his red, full to the point of overflowing duffel bag was resting between him and his brother. The school wasn't too far away and Sherlock could have taken the train, but Mycroft insisted on taking him, because obviously, he wanted to make the day more unpleasant.

Ever since Sherlock had gone to hospital, Mycroft was acting rather overprotective. Sherlock found that rather annoying. He wasn't mad. He could take care of himself thank you very much. Well, if he had his experiments with him. And internet, for research. And some money. But apart from that, Sherlock could do fine on his own.

On another subject, Mycroft had never really believed in friends, but he seemed to not want his brother to be alone. No matter how many childish feuds happened between them on a daily basis, he truly wanted the best for Sherlock, even if he didn't admit that.

He talked to Lestrade, but the DI had said that he didn't know if his son has a roommate or not. He added that many kids had joined the school this year, so the dorms would be full. Then he gave Mycroft a poke with his elbow which Greg _immediately _regretted afterwards.

It was very strange for Gregory Lestrade when he was discussing schools with Mycroft Holmes, just because it was a strange and an unlikely thing to happen under any circumstances.

However, Gregory Junior had found out that Sherlock was going to the same school as him and promised to try to befriend him, not punch him, keep others from punching him, keep him from punching others and hold one eye open on was honestly all Mycroft had hoped for.

The Holmes arrived at Baker and Stubbs Boarding School after about two hours of driving. Well, the driver's driving, not Mycroft's. The building they stopped in front of was a two story facility with big windows. The walls were a pastel yellow and the grounds were surely much bigger and wider but they were all behind the long building.

Sherlock had stepped out of the car and had taken a deep breath of pine trees and rain smell. His brown, comfortable soldier boots, which Sherlock really liked, squished the mud beneath his feet. That feeling always left him content.

They entered the building through the main entrance, above which there was a big sign with the name of the school and the year when it was built. _Tacky_, thought Sherlock, _but traditional._

They met with the headmaster in his office that was on the second floor of the yellow building right above the big entrance. The office was small and desks were filled with papers in the next room, their smell and the smell of office supplies were filling the air and Sherlock almost felt uncomfortable. Of course, the office had a very inutile waiting room, _why the hell did they need a waiting room_, with very, very hideous chairs.

The headmaster looked in about his fifties. He had a full head of white hair that looked great and straight, perfect teeth of the matching colour. Older men minus a bold spot and weird, unfitting suits were strange, but also interesting to stumble upon. Also, his looks did not fit his working place one bit.

He spoke about the rules and things like that that Sherlock didn't really listen to. Rules. Rules were boring. But after about twenty minutes of blabber, something interesting finally came up.

"The boys' dorm is on the right when you walk out of this building and into the school grounds." The headmaster began with his deep voice. "There are two corridors or parts of the building. There's A and there's B."

Sherlock almost sighed exasperatedly. Really? _Really? _He was going to see that by himself on his own! He just wanted to lie down and go to his mind palace.  
>He craved for a bed or a sofa or even the floor, anything but this narrow, awkward wooden chair he was sitting on.<p>

"You will be positioned in room 221 corridor B, Mr. Holmes." The man opposite him said after he had looked at some papers on his desk to make sure.

"And, who will be his roommate?" Mycroft was direct as ever and the principal raised his eyebrows and looked over to the file. "Er… We have got James Moriarty written here. He… is a bit of a troublemaker. Rarely ever is in fact in school. Nobody knows where he's always off to." The man laughed half-heartedly, whilst the Holmes brothers remained with their typical deadpan masks on.

"We do not know if James is going to come and if you would actually meet him. I know he's assigned as your roommate, but you will practically be living alone during your stay. I hope that wouldn't bother you?" The headmaster looked nervous.

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock cut him off right away.  
>"That would be no problem." He tried to smile politely.<p>

"Great." The man opposite the Holmes brothers went back to smiling. Sherlock wondered if that didn't hurt his mouth because he was doing it for way too long already. "So, if you could come with me to the secretary office so we could finish things off and you would be free to go to your dorm room."

Everybody stood up. The headmaster opened the door and gestured for the two men to walk out first. They turned left and took a trip down the corridor. The second door to the left had a cloud shaped peace of paper with "secretary" written on it with markers. It was one of those things schools did where they let pupils do things to the interior, or hanged their drawings in a corridor, just because in the case someone came to visit, it should attain the look of a happy place. The headmaster knocked on the door twice and opened it.

"Oh, Mr. Smith how glad I am to see y-"A nice woman in her fourties with mousy blonde hair who wore a floral dress was standing behind a huge desk full of paperwork. There was so much paperwork everywhere, Sherlock wondered where it all came from. The woman suddenly stopped talking when she saw Sherlock.

They both widened their eyes and before anybody knew what was happening, she walked around the desk and to Sherlock, a wide smile glued on her face.

"I can't believe it! What in the devil are you doing here Sherlock Holmes?" She hugged him and to Mycroft's and the headmaster's (whose name was apparently Mr. Smith) surprise, he hugged back, his long arms draped over her back, his neck uncomfortably craned because he was so tall.

"Mrs. Hudson." He nodded to her after they pulled away.

"I see you have met each other?" Mr. Smith had no idea what was happening.

"Oh yes, yes." Mrs. Hudson diverted her eyes from Sherlock to look at the headmaster. "He helped me out a lot when my husband was sentenced to death in Florida." She was still smiling, as if she was the happiest woman alive.

"You managed to save her husband from being executed?" Mr. Smith's eyes were as big as the pans they used in the cafeteria.

"Oh no, I ensured it." Sherlock waved the matter off with his hand.

Mr. Smith's eyes turned even bigger, if that was possible.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch your name?" Mrs. Hudson turned to Mycroft who had shown no visible reaction to what had just happened.

"Mycroft Holmes." He extended a hand which the woman shook.

"It's a pleasure Mr. Holmes! I assume you are Sherlock's brother?" Mrs. Hudson kept that look of utter delight on her face.

"Well, obviously." Mycroft hummed under his breath.

"Please, excuse him, he didn't get to finish his newspaper in the morning, so he's a bit grumpy." Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson and the corners of his mouth quirked up.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hello again!  
><strong>**Yes, this chapter was a total frenzy because i got motivated and wrote it all tonight!  
><strong>**The events are still pretty boring, but i hope we'll be getting to the more exciting bits fairly soon. I do want to start writing John Watson more. Do you think it's too early? No? I have no idea.  
>I hope you'll enjoy this chapter and thank you for reading ^^ ( by the way do you like my little doctor who cameo going on?)<strong>

**you are all gorgeous muffins!**  
><strong>~red owl feathers.<strong>

* * *

><p>CHAPTER FOUR<p>

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to the entrance to the school grounds and everything behind the pastel-yellow building they were in.

Mycroft had said his reluctant goodbye to his brother and had gone to the car. The headmaster simply retrieved to his office to have another look at Sherlock's paperwork.

And Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson headed down to the boys' dorm.

They had anything and everything to talk about. Mrs. Hudson went on asking questions about how he was doing, if he was still as brilliant as ever and if he was eating enough. She was behaving much like a second mother, which Sherlock had noticed was a natural behavior for her when they had first met.

So now they were standing in front of a path covered in pebbles. On their left, there was grass.

On their right, there was also grass.

The path looked long and it was lined with perfectly trimmed trees. They were walking and talking in the same time and by the time Sherlock wondered if he should tell Mrs. Hudson about John Watson they had reached a somewhat of a crossroad. The big pebble covered path was cut perpendicularly by a path that looked pretty much the same, only it was smaller. On a tree on the right side of the crossroad a piece of wood read "boys' dormitories". On an according tree on the left side with an according piece of wood was made clear that the left smaller path lead to the girls' dormitories.

So they turned right.

When Sherlock looked around he saw a lawn with some people enjoying the warm weather and the sunshine. Some of them were sitting on picnic blankets, others simply on their jackets. Most of them had a book or headphones or company. A couple of students looked in his direction, but most of them looked friendly enough.

A couple of minutes later, when the path was starting to seem infinite, they reached a two-story building that presumably had the shape of a triangle because the front was consisted of two walls that met in the middle. There were two big wooden doors on both walls and Mrs. Hudson lead the boy through one of them.

The air inside was at least five degrees cooler than outside. But in summer, that is always a good thing. Mrs. Hudson's shoes clacked against the floor. Sherlock looked at his feet and saw black and white tiles arranged in a chessboard sort of way. Right before him there was a big staircase and corridors leading to the rooms on the ground floor.

"Sherlock, dear, the common room is right over here." She motioned to the right of the hall. Sherlock followed her and saw two big slide doors made out of glass. Inside there were a lot of armchairs and sofas and shelves with magazines and books. There was even a television there. A fireplace that was of no use in this time of the year stood surrounded by armchairs in a corner.

Apart from that, there were the regular "usual common room boy activity things" like a tabletop football, some board games and a small table tennis. A couple of boys were sitting on a carpet in front of the TV and were playing a videogame someone had brought.

Mrs. Hudson's voice snapped Sherlock out of his observations and back to reality. "Let's see which room you are in." She hummed to herself while pulling out a big binder from God knows where.

"Hmm. Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holme- aha! There you are. Room 221 corridor B." She looked up, smiling.

"I presume that means upstairs." Sherlock looked up the big staircase a few meters away.

"You're absolutely right. Come on." She started walking up the stairs.

And then Sherlock noticed that he had been so stupid and missed something so mind blindingly obvious. Something was off and he knew what. The boy was about to physically slap himself.

"Mrs. Hudson. My bags. Where are they?" He saw the look of realization on her face and for a second it almost looked like _she_ _actually_ got slapped in the face.

"Oh. Well. They must be in the waiting room."

The waiting room was where people waited to speak to the headmaster. As if that was absolutely necessary.

Sherlock let out a huff. "I suppose you wouldn't go and get them for me?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "I'm the secretary dear, not your housekeeper."

"A man can hope." They walked to the door and Sherlock held it open for the woman.

When they were outside again and had reached the spot where the two alleyways met, Mrs. Hudson turned right instead of continuing to the left with Sherlock.

"Aren't you returning to the yellow building?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"No, no, I have to go check on a spot near the rugby pitch. If those Year 10s are smoking under the birches again, I swear to the lord I will make them eat their cigarettes." She looked eager to actually do that. Sometimes Sherlock was right on scared of what she was capable of. That woman was full of surprises.

"Before I forget, here is the key to your room, dear." She slid a cold metal thing in his palm and smiled one last time before rushing down the alley. Sherlock took a look at the small silver thing that hung from the keychain that read 221B.

The bags were much heavier than he had expected them to be. After all there were mostly clothes in one of them. But in the other two there was a laptop, many books, (as though the school didn't have a library) and his experiments that Sherlock had insisted on moving with him. Well, at least the ones that you could move. Or the ones that were along the lines of legal.

Let's just say that if anybody found a pig's head in his room, they would most likely be disturbed. To say the least.

Sherlock had a hard time going up the stairs. He was absolutely loving the fact that he wasn't a female, because his hair was getting in the way anyways and he could never imagine what a struggle it would be to have, say, waist long hair.

When he reached the second floor, he started looking for his corridor. He was basically in the back of the building now, so corridor B was first. There, you could find the rooms from 200 up. He quickly got the numeration system and found his room.

The boy dropped everything he was holding except his key, with which he unlocked the door. The bags that now lay on the floor were carelessly kicked in by Sherlock's feet.

The room was nice. It had a big window that faced the back garden, behind the building. It smelled nice. On the side there was a small, black door, probably a bathroom. There was a bunk bed and Sherlock decided he would sleep on the top bunk right away. The wallpaper was a black and white one with some sort of ornaments on it.

What really caught his attention though, was the smiley.

Next to the beds, there was a spray-painted yellow smiley face. Sherlock looked at the paint and noted it was a rare type. Probably a doing of his supposed-to-be roommate.

He definitely seemed like an interesting subject.

'I probably should start unpacking then. Dull.'

He flopped onto an armchair near the desk. There was an interesting case going on. Mycroft didn't know he was on it, but Sherlock had already developed a very likely theory in his mind and just waited for the police to find the thing that linked everything together, so he could be sure.

Waiting was not really his forte.

The boy put his fingers together at the tips and brought them to his chin; he had to think.

_Think. Think. Think._

"Your knowledge about fictional universes amazes me"

_Yes, of course. That was to be foreseen._

"Hello John, and thank you."

And there he was, standing in a lucid-dream sort of fashion, dangling his feet from the top bunk.

"That's my bunk, you know."

"I didn't know you were a top person. I prefer bottom."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his mouth quirked up nevertheless. "Then why are you sitting on the top bunk?"

"Oh, you know living on the edge. Literally." He was sitting just at the end of the bed.

"Extreme."

"I know." John smirked. "You know, _Mickey_ _is not a useless character._"

"And how do you know?" Sherlock looked a bit insulted and furrowed his eyebrows.

"I actually watch the show."

"Oh, shut up." He took a book that had suddenly appeared next to him.

John tilted his head. "Human decomposition, huh?"

"Obviously. It does say so. On the cover."

"A bit of light reading tonight then?"

"It's for an experiment."

"Oh. Right." He lied back on the bed hands by his sides.

"Where is it from?"

"Huh?" John sat up again.

"The bruise on your cheek. Where is it from?"

"Oh, that. Well, a little domestic, nothing important." He touched his cheek subconsciously. "Again, I have no idea how exactly, because I do not actually exist."

"I dare to bet it is really confusing." Sherlock was referring to his mind palace.

"Yes. You have a giant corridor with alternative universes in rooms and people and things I had no idea existed and all of that in your head. It is confusing. Isn't it to you?"

"Not really." The smart boy sneaked a peak at his friend over his book. "I have it all sorted out. Most of the time."

"Amazing." John shook his head and chuckled. "Oh! I just remembered. Although, like I said, I have no idea how, I am also changing sc-"

Sherlock took a sharp turn of his head to face the door that was being knocked on.

"Coming." Extremely annoying.

Who was disturbing him this time?


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: hello my dear lovelies!  
>Did you miss me? *eheheheh*<br>'holy crap, this chapter is so late' should be written everywhere. i should get that on a tshirt.  
>I'm so sorry if any of you have waited for this. It's also short. I'm so sorry.<br>But i think i got my muse. I hit 300 views which is like woah. Like. WOAH.**

**Thank you so much for reading, doing, existing.**  
><strong>See you in the next one (hopefully soon)<strong>

**~red owl feathers**

* * *

><p>The door was opened sharply and it revealed a tall, lanky but muscular boy with black curls and icy blue eyes.<p>

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Hi I'm Gregory. Gregory Lestrade." The boy on the other side introduced himself. "I'm the prefect. See?" he pointed to a little badge on his blazer. "Er… I was told by my father you'll be in my school so I decided to, you know, come say hi."

The guy was tall, not as tall as Sherlock, athletic and looked a couple of years older. He had bright hair that was something along the lines of brown, sort of messy and sticking out in a couple of spots. He had a tiny fleck of mustard in one corner of his mouth, barely noticeable, you know, _if you weren't Sherlock Holmes_, which was probably caused by his lunch.

"Ooh, _that_ Gregory." Sherlock mentally took a note that the name was Gregory. "Yes, hello. You interrupted my thinking."

Greg shot him a quizzical look. "I'm sorry?" he wasn't sure if that was the right thing to say.

"Is that all?" Sherlock lifted an eyebrow.

"Er, no I have to show you the school and things like that." He held a folder in one hand that had all sorts of flying papers put together.

"Of course, yes." Sherlock grabbed his keys and closed the door. "You're Lestrade's son, right?"

"Um, yes. I've heard lots of good things about you." Greg seemed polite enough.

"Oh. Well. I hope you haven't spoken with Donovan or Anderson." The taller boy smirked.

They were walking down the somewhat dark corridor.

"Wait, when did you have time to meet Donovan and Anderson?" Greg raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock sighed. "I had to go back and take my baggage from the waiting room."

"Ah." Greg grinned "Did you really forget your bags back in the waiting room?"

Sherlock cleared his throat completely ignoring the other lad's question. "What exactly do you have to show me?"

They walked a lot that day, Sherlock and Lestrade. First they went to the main school building where most of the classes were. It was a big, three story facility with a fourth floor in a small section of it. Sherlock later learned that the fourth floor was a music department.

There was a big auditorium, many classrooms and many staircases. Sherlock was sure it would take him at least a couple of days to get to know them by heart.

Inside, the air was as cool as it was in the boys' dorms. There were close to no people, after all the classes started in two or three days. Tomorrow, there was an assembly in the auditorium and everyone had to go. Dull.

They continued with the football and rugby pitch. It was right next to the school building, to which a small sports hall was connected. In the hall were the changing rooms, both girls and boys. The pitch was almost as big as the school, the fresh grass was being stomped on by several enthusiastic football players and their ball.

Who would start with sports right away, Sherlock wondered. It seemed an incredible way to lose time.

Lestrade whistled to a couple of the players and they turned around and waved at him.

"That's the football team." Here we go again with the obvious. "You probably already know I'm the captain, I guess."

"Of course I know, I knew it the minute you walked through that door." Sherlock hummed. "Your whole anatomy screamed it and there was the mustard spot on your mouth."

"Wait, what?" Lestrade looked up from his folder only to shoot the other boy a quizzical look.

"Well, you ate lunch at the cafeteria. With some of them." He pointed at the boys, running in high speed towards the ball.

"How do you-"

"How do I know? I don't. I observe." Sherlock stated "Mustard does not go with vegetables. It only goes with some sort of meat. So, not a vegetarian. You're very fit. Obviously training something. But it could have been over the summer." He continued "You've got a spot of mustard on your mouth, right there." Sherlock pointed at the corner of Greg's mouth. "So you were in a hurry. You're a prefect, it could have been that, but since you are taking your time to take me around only an hour and a half after lunch, you probably don't have that sort of duties. So a fit boy who is not necessarily eating healthily and is in a hurry for something. Rules out most of the other possibilities. And you just waved at those guys over there, so football it is. I strongly suspected it." He added. "And you just said captain, so…"

"Wow." Lestrade blinked. "Bloody hell." He blinked again. "I knew you were smart, but…" he made a high-pitched noise.

After they went to the lake and the lanes and gazebos surrounding it, Greg suggested he and Sherlock join his friends. And because the said friends were Anderson and Sally Donovan, whom he had met earlier, Sherlock faked a polite smile and said he would rather go back to the dorms. Greg let him, of course. He told him if there were any problems, he could go to room 210.

'But what is so bad about Anderson and Donovan?' the kind reader might ask.

When Sherlock went to take his bags, those two pupils stopped him on the way there.

Sally was a tall girl with chocolate skin and frizzy hair. She had a somewhat strange southern accent. She looked younger than Sherlock but probably was in the same year as him. Sally wore a tight fitting skirt and platforms, sort of untypical for a schoolgirl. Again, there were no lessons yet, so maybe it was acceptable. She had a strangely annoying, somewhat nasal voice.

Anderson was sort of similar-looking. His skin was pale and he had black, oily hair which brushed his shoulders only slightly. He reminded Sherlock of Professor Snape. His voice was also nasal and annoying. He looked lanky and had awful stubble. After about a minute of looking at him, Sherlock decided he also reminded him of a rat.

After about two minutes of dull and snide remarks from their side, Sherlock spat out that Donovan was wearing Anderson's deodorant. Something about the state of her knees and how she had "probably scrubbed Anderson's floor in the night". If you were to watch what was happening from a distance, you might have found it extremely amusing.

Sherlock was pretty sure they hated him already. But after a mere second of second thoughts he found that he didn't really care.

After he walked back to the dorms and got to his room, Sherlock took his laptop, books and experiments out of one of his bags. Other things could wait.

By the time he had finished a couple of experiments, texted the police, looked up facts about sewing and talked to John for hours about a particularly interesting case they had with a copycat of a serial killer, it was already way past curfew. Holmes had no idea what the next day had prepared for him. Probably more reading.

But until then, he would do something that rarely happened.

Sherlock Holmes would sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: hello, my lovelies!**

**look at this! it's a new chapter which is not terribly late. i feel happy, do you? (◕‿◕✿)  
>i am like 4 reads away from 500 which is fucking insane okay<strong>

**Thank you sososo much for reading and if you think this chapter is a good/ bad one make sure to tell me!  
>Again, thank you a lot and enjoy this long- ish chapter!<strong>

**you are so lovely!**

**~red owl fethers**

* * *

><p>Two weeks had passed before anyone knew it. It was time for classes, waking up early (which 90 percent of the students absolutely despised) and carrying books around (which the other ten percent also hated). Sherlock was barely making an effort to actually attend classes.<p>

He was often late or not at all present, not because he preferred to sleep late (okay maybe once in a while) but mostly because he had other things to do.

Those other things did not include unpacking.

Two weeks after he had dropped those bags on the floor, they were on the exact same spot. Except for his books and experiments, pretty much nothing was taken out from any of the bags. And still the room looked like a mess.

He took out clothes, only by sticking his hand in the abyss and gripping something random. So when he took the clothes off he threw them in some direction and hoped they won't get lost forever.

There were books scattered on the floor, some half opened revealing an ink drawing there and neatly printed text there. Some were still wrapped in their original package.

His violin lay on the desk, bow beside it. People were complaining whenever he decided to play, mostly because a great deal of the playing was happening long after the skies had turned dark.

Sherlock's black converse shoes were beside the door and he was walking around barefoot.

The other bed however was as unoccupied as it was on the first day. The sheets were still there, but there was nobody that lied on them.

What was this Moriarty person?

Sherlock, the beyond curious person that he was, did some research.

When Anthea picked him up from the hospital he went to Waterloo Bridge for a reason.

And just as he had told her, he was investigating.

You see, Sherlock had developed a thing called "the homeless network".

It was a great big web of people, homeless people for that matter that basically spied on other people for the money Sherlock gave them. Quite illegal, but the Holmes brother didn't really care.

When asked, he always said that it was homeless people he used, because they are the eyes and ears of the streets.

The WaterlooBridge woman, as Sherlock had nicknamed one of the people in his network, was a big source of information. When he had gone to her that weekend, she told him something very interesting.

A woman, a very wealthy woman to be more exact, was sitting near enough for the spy to hear what she was on about.

Her daughter, it appears had been threatened. And who was her daughter? Her name was Irene Adler.

And of course, now comes the question, what does this Adler girl have to do with Sherlock or Moriarty or the woman from the network, and why was this important in any way?

The answer of course was that she was going to the same school as Sherlock.

Irene Adler had been quite the popular girl in Baker and Stubbs. Her mother mentioned the name of the school, of course, otherwise it would not have been possible for Sherlock to know. But let's go back to Irene.

Irene Adler is what you may call a Dominatrix. She was probably more powerful than the school principle himself, probably more powerful than her mother or any other common person she had interest in overpowering.

Everybody called her "The Woman". She was about 17 years old, but she had every quality a woman possesses. She was independent and had everyone on her little finger. Sherlock hadn't met her yet, but he was highly interested.

So who could possibly try and threaten The Woman?

Everybody who tried, failed miserably or were outsmarted. But this time, she was afraid. And the Dominatrix is never afraid.

Soon enough, Sherlock learned that it was supposedly his "roommate" who dared play a dangerous game. It took Holmes only a week and a half to establish a system that had many threads, so that he could know what was happening all over campus, mere seconds after it had happened.

That system included people that weren't necessarily connected to Sherlock or liked him. He just needed the information.

Moriarty was a mystic figure. Sherlock overheard a couple of people talking about him; he could catch only whispers and ridiculous rumors, like _"I heard he killed somebody, that's why he's not here anymore"_ or _"he's so stinking rich, he can just drop out of school"_ of for instance _"somebody told me Mr. Smith is related to him, that's why he only kicked him out of the school". _The one with the murder was Sherlock's personal favourite. It was all like a modern adaptation of "The Great Gatsby". Some absolutely impossible things were going through people's minds, some vaguely interesting. Nobody knew for sure what exactly the deal with James Moriarty was.

One day about three weeks after lessons had started, there were some exciting news.

It was a Friday and Sherlock had last period chemistry. He was pretty happy with his results. It wasn't the most important thing on his mind, but the experiment had been successful so the chemistry teacher had told him he could come during the weekend if he wanted to experiment with something else. There was this mutual liking between the two. Sherlock had thanked him and helped Lestrade clean up the mess he had made.

Lestrade wasn't any good in chemistry.

When he was getting out of the school building (the chemistry lab was on the second floor) he accidentally pushed someone on the stairs. Sherlock frowned and was about to say something like "watch out" to the person whose shoulder had met his, but then he stopped.

"Ah, Sherlock I was looking just for you!" Mrs. Hudson turned around and the two started walking side by side.

"What is it, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked, a little bit annoyed that someone stopped him from returning to his room as fast as he could.

"I've got some exciting news." She said happily.

Sherlock quickened his pace "Well then? You caught the Year 10s under the birches, they were smoking, you made them eat the cigarettes?"

"No, no, not that." She shook her head. "You're getting a new roommate!" she squealed a little and her hands went flying in the air.

Sherlock stopped as if someone had hit him in the face.

"What?" he knew it would happen someday.

"Well, you're having a new room-"

"Yes I heard. Not really new, given the fact I practically never had one. Who?"  
>"Well…" she looked to where her folder always was and her face dropped as she remembered it still lay on the desk in her office.<p>

"Never mind that. When?" Sherlock started walking again, this time even faster and Mrs. Hudson struggled to keep up.

"He is arriving this afternoon if I remember correctly." She smiled again.

"Catastrophic." Sherlock mumbled.

"Oh, cheer up now, I read his file, he seems pleasant enough." Mrs. Hudson tapped Sherlock on the shoulder in a comforting manner. His face relaxed a little. "I have to go back now; you tell me how he is!" She kept on walking forward, while Sherlock went to the left.

"Only on tea and biscuits!" Sherlock shouted.

That afternoon, Sherlock was ashamed to admit is, he felt a little excited.

Will his roommate be a total douche bag? Will he be an idiot?

There were a thousand questions the boy asked himself and finally, when he decided nothing can be done to erase them from his mind, he started writing them down.

**_Roommate aspect_**

**1. Does he seem like a douche? (Deductions based on his overall appearance)**

**2. Why is he here? (Football scholarship; rich?)**

**_3. Can I deduce him out loud, or will he react aggressively and/or negatively? _**

He thought about the third one and decided to scratch it out. He didn't really care how the boy would react.

**_4. Family?_**

**_5. Does he read?_**

**_6. If yes, what?_**

**_7. Does he shower in the morning? (Could use information for experiment)  
><em>**

**_8. Do his feet smell?  
><em>**

**_9. What is his presumable IQ?_**

He seemed to be forgetting something… Oh.

**_10. What's his name?_**

Two hours had passed, still no roommate. It was six pm now and curfew was in ten. And by 'curfew', everyone understood 'be in the common rooms or your dorm rooms and if you're brave go outside but watch the hell out'.  
>Where was this boy?<p>

Sherlock went to his mind palace. He expected John, sitting somewhere, probably reading a book. But nothing like that came to view. He was standing in the corridor again, with all the doors he could enter.

_Maybe he's in one of the rooms, that idiot._

So Sherlock looked in the first room. And in the second. And in the third, the fourth, every room there was. But there was no John Watson.

The boy started to panic, opening more and more rooms, sticking his head in, forcing some really dusty doors open, but his John was nowhere to be seen. A white door led to a rock near the ocean, a blue to an unsolved case. Nothing. Everything seemed empty. Sherlock jumped out of his seat.

And then someone knocked on the door. Sherlock was probably looking very strange, he was pacing around the room fast, and his hand was running through his hair, making it completely insane. He went to open the door.

Wait, what?

"Hello."

Was this some sort of joke?

"I'm sorry I'm so late."

Did Mycroft, with his dreadful sense of humor organize this to make fun of his brother?

A hand crossed with Sherlock's view. A pair of blue eyes was staring at him.

"Um…are you alright?"

"Y- Yeah, yeah, uh… yeah." Wait, was he stuttering?

Immediately the door fluttered back to its original state, as Sherlock closed it as fast as he could. He turned around, so his back was propped on the door.

A muffled voice came from the other side "Is everything okay?" the voice sounded worried and then continued unsurely "I'm supposed to be your roommate? Have I got the wrong room?"

Sherlock was in a state, where you kind of feel that your head is completely empty. He heard some other voice through the door. The two were talking for a bit and then one voice said something loud enough for Sherlock to understand.

"Sherlock, open the damn door." It was Lestrade. "Do you really want to keep the lad here waiting?"

Sherlock hesitated. He didn't want to open the door but he couldn't keep it closed forever. He decided it would be easier if he let the boy in.

"Ah." Lestrade's voice was clear now. The shorter boy that was standing next to him was holding three small bags and hurried inside after Sherlock had made enough space for him to do so. Sherlock was extra careful not to touch the boy in any possible way.

"Oh my god, your room is such a mess." Greg stood in the doorway now with his hands on his back.

The roommate dropped his bags behind his bed, given that it was practically the only space that wasn't marked by Sherlock's belongings.

He walked over to Sherlock, who was at least half a head taller than him and extended a hand.

"Hello. I'm-"

Sherlock hesitated and shook the hand.

"John Watson. I know."

* * *

><p><strong>dundundun? was it a plot twist?<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: yo im back!**

**hello, lovelies,**

**it has been waaay too long and the other day, my nan and I were out buying things and suddenly i remembered that I HAD A FANFICTION TO WRITE.  
><strong>**my computer has been a little devil, I am so sorry for not uploading...**

**anyways, here you go * throws chapter at you***

**enjoy**

**i love every and each single one of you.**

**~red owl feathers**

* * *

><p>Now, if the normal average person found him or herself in the unlikely situation Sherlock was in, they would probably talk with the new character the whole time.<p>

But, like we already know, Sherlock isn't the normal average person. So instead of setting the start to a conversation, a mix of small talk and getting-to-know-each-other talk, Sherlock did the appropriate thing a person like him would do.

He ran to the bathroom, locked the door and turned the shower on.

On the other side of the narrow door that separated the two rooms, there stood a certain boy whose name was John Watson. A boy that should most definitely _not _be real. A boy that existed solely in Sherlock's _mind. _If he was an actual human of flesh and blood, it would be the biggest joke the universe had ever played on him. And there was a lot of irony in Sherlock's life, mind you.

Of course, the youngest Holmes thought it was all some sort of prank Mycroft had played just to mess around with him. But his brother had no time to put to waste. So what was the case here?

Sherlock strongly hoped John wouldn't like to knock on the door or check on him. Thankfully, he didn't.

Half an hour later that seemed like an eternity, John Watson looked up from the books he was looking at. He was sitting on the floor in a huddled sort of position, but the way he jumped when he saw the dark haired boy in the doorway was incredible.

"You scared me." he laughed. "Are you sure everything's uh… fine?" his eyes wandered from Sherlock's face to his hair and then back to his face and then further down until they reached his toes. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Yes, yes." The other boy nodded.

There was a short silence.

"So you're John Watson then?"

"Yeah, you knew that, didn't you?" his brows narrowed in a manner that displayed curiosity. "How?"

"Well…" Sherlock stole a glimpse of John's baggage and answered appropriately "Your bags." And he pointed at them with his index finger. "The sticker on them says so."

"Oh." John turned around to make sure with his own eyes. "Yeah, you're right."

"Of course I am."

"I'm sorry and you are? The other boy said something with sh?" he rubbed his neck awkwardly. This meeting-the-imaginary-friend-in-real-life thing was harder than it was supposed to be. "I'm not quite good at remembering names." John apologized.

Sherlock was still leaning on the bathroom door. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Well, nice to meet you Sherlock Holmes- oh. Sorry, wait a sec."

The blond boy fished his cell phone out of his jeans pocket. While doing so he leaned on his left leg and slid his thumb and forefinger in and pinched his small smartphone out. He took a brief look at his screen and his face grew soft and a little sad.

"Gotta take that." He smiled politely and started walking to the door Sherlock was leaning against. The taller boy stepped aside and John nodded a thanks. The door went shut and clicked once again this evening.

_Likes privacy. _Sherlock noted. He knew that. He knew most things about John. And John knew nothing about Sherlock. Great.

John's soft voice came from behind the door. He sounded caring and the conversation was obviously with someone who had a role in his life and who he cared about. He felt protective about. He was very attached to. The boy didn't have many friends and let me tell you why.

About two or three years ago, John had been the most sociable, nice person you could meet. He was talkative and he loved meeting new people. He was very easy to communicate with, relaxed and interesting to be around. His mother once told him he had talked to a kid with autism completely normally and had established a contact with him.

All this was very nice, and the boy didn't spend much time thinking about it. But then something had happened and there was a drastic change. John became secluded. He was afraid to talk to people; afraid they would laugh at him or reject him; afraid he couldn't say the right thing. When you read it like that it must sound like a dramatic teenage problem or a quirky thing or a characteristic kids thought was cool. But it was just the way John was, and it sure as hell wasn't quirky or cute.

Sherlock hadn't really found out the reason for everything that made John that way but he didn't really push it. Holmes wasn't the most communicative person himself.

Soon after, the door clicked once again and a somewhat upset John walked out.

"How's your mum doing?"

"Hm? Oh, what sorry? My mum?" He looked baffled and then took a glimpse at his hand where the phone was rested underneath his fingers, the black screen staring back at him. "Uh, she's okay. How did you-"

"-know? I didn't. I simply observe." Lestrade had deserved the same speech earlier. Sherlock was flipping through a book but decided to close it and put it aside. His bright eyes pierced the dim lighting in the room, the lights were still out, and the sun was slowly setting down. "Your conversation was obviously between you and somebody you somewhat deeply care about. You are very diffident and chary so probably not a friend or girlfriend. Family then. Your father is an alcoholic and abusive based on that cheek bruise you got last week. The mark is too big to be your brother's or your mother's, it's clearly a big man's hand."

He pointed at Watson's cheek where he had seen the bruise in his mind palace weeks ago. There was still a little fleck of color on his naturally tanned skin. John touched his cheek like last time. Sherlock knew what the "little domestic" was.

"You have an older sibling, a brother, that shirt isn't yours nor is that suitcase. I can see the replaced nametag and judging by your phone the old one used to say "Harry Watson"."

His mind raced like a really fast animal or a Japanese train. His thoughts jumped over one another and he wondered what to say first. "Your phone. Scratches on the screen imply it's been in a pocket or something, together with keys and coins. Clearly a hand-me-down. Could be your father's, but as we already established, he's an alcoholic, probably doesn't like you that much, unless he is sober. He's a great chap when he's sober, but it doesn't happen often. Anyway, it's a young man's gadget, so a sibling. _Could _be a cousin but you're in a boarding school; you probably don't have an extended family, so sibling it is. Next thing, you already know."

By this point Sherlock had taken the phone from John and was turning it around in his hands.

"The engraving." John's voice was quiet and he was looking at the phone.

"Right. So, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says romantic attachment, the expense of the gift says wife. But why has Harry given it to you? The answer of course is, Clara and Harry broke up. He broke up with her, to be exact. If she had ended their relationship, he would have kept the phone, people do, sentiment, but he gave it to you, he wanted to get rid of it, so he broke up with her." He took a sharp breath after talking so fast and so long. "They are getting a divorce then. Probably his drinking. And I can tell you don't like that either."

"How" John took a breath and looked at Sherlock intently "can you possibly know about the drinking?!"

"Shot in the dark, good one though. There are also scratches around the battery charge socket. Every night, when he plugs it in, his hands are trembling. You never see a sober man's phone with those marks, never see a drunk's one without them." Sherlock flipped the phone in his hands and seemed pretty satisfied with himself.

"So… what does this have to do with how my mum's doing?" John looked absolutely baffled.

"Oh, right. Well, it was obviously not your father or brother you were talking to, given the fact that you don't maintain a great relationship with them. You seemed very affectionate towards your interlocutor. So mum it is."

It was only now that Sherlock realized he had deduced John. Told him some facts about his life that probably weren't suitable for the knowledge of a person John had only just met. He had told him that both his brother and father were drunks and that he preferred solitariness. Probably not the nicest conversation starters ever.

And suddenly, there was doubt in Sherlock. He could have offended John. Although, when he had first done this to him in his mind palace, John had reacted rather… positively. He had even somewhat praised Sherlock. He had seemed amazed.

But his mind palace wasn't always in accordance with reality. Sure, John apparently existed, but two coincidences in a row could be just impossible. His roommate was probably going to be rather offended. Sherlock expected a punch, John wanting another room, or a stream of curse words.

But his expectations didn't correspond to what actually happened. Again.

"That was… brilliant." John let out a breath and then laughed a little and shook his head.

Sherlock was definitely puzzled. For a short period of time it was quiet.

"…You think so?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow in confusion. Definitely not according to his expectations.

"Yes, of course it was, it was absolutely amazing."

Sherlock felt a little embarrassed, because the shorter boy was looking at him with something close to admiration in his eyes.

"That's not what people normally say." Jesus he was bad at this.

"What do they normally say?"

"Piss off."

John started chuckling quietly and went over to take his phone.

"You are rather interesting aren't you?" he asked, briefly looking up and then back to his phone.

"Very. But did I get everything right though?"

John flopped onto his bed with a light thump. The pillow felt cold against his warm head.

"Well, my father is rather repulsive, I _did_ call my mother, Clara and Harry are getting a divorce and Harry _is_ a drinker."

"Oh, I did? That's great I always get something wrong. Good, good." Sherlock nodded to himself, climbed the ladder and returned to his bed in a similar fashion to John. His pillow was warm.

"Harry is short for Harriet." John took a book from the floor and opened it on a random page, searching the last bit he had read in the train while getting here.

"A sister. _Sister._" Sherlock hissed. "There's always something isn't there?"

"There's always something." John agreed. "It was very nice meeting you, Sherlock."

Sherlock turned around and lied on his belly. He smirked.

"It was very nice meeting you too, John. You know, in real life."

John chuckled but then stopped. "Wait, what?"

"Oh, a tale for another time."

Sherlock switched the lights on. It was going to be a pleasant evening.

There was a faint thud from outside. Their window was opened and the cool evening summer air was seizing the molecules in the room. There was a hint of the smell of lilacs from the garden right under their window. People outside were talking, there were happy cries from a time to time. Some people started shouting and Sherlock soon realized the thud appeared to be rain.

Big drops fell from the pink skies and everybody hid fast. The smell of rain replaced the lilacs.

Everything was well.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: hello lovely people!**

**I am almost at 1.1k reads which is absolutely goddamn insane and ridicule worthy.  
><strong>**break over here is almost over, which i am sad about but hey, at least we've got sherlock and john to keep us entertained throughout the monstrous school year.  
><strong>**enjoy!**

***throws chapter and runs away giggling***

**IMPORTANT P.S.: MAJOR SPOILER (although everyone knows about it) FOR THE END OF SEASON ONE OF GAME OF THRONES (although come on probably all of you have watched it/ read the books) BUT YEAH**

**~red owl feathers**

* * *

><p>Imagine this scene.<p>

John Watson, an absolutely normal seventeen year old boy, who at times even behaved too maturely for his age was dancing around to some stupid song, holding a bottle of water as his microphone and singing absolutely horrifically.

Sherlock Holmes, was judging his fellow companion from the top bunk of the bed, while texting Scotland Yard about a homicidal lunatic that had escaped prison a few days prior.

After the song had ended and the blonde boy seemed tired enough to stop the monstrosity, Sherlock was extremely thankful.

"What astounding piece of music was that anyway?" Sherlock asked incredulously as the other boy sat on the armchair near the desk. Tiny little drops of sweat were forming on his forehead and he glanced up at the other boy.

Eighteen days had passed, lessons were boring as ever but they were going to have the weekend all to themselves, separately of course, in just one day.

Sherlock had wondered what to do with the curious case of John but he hadn't come up with an idea just yet. He decided to get more data and spot the differences (if there were any) between real John and imaginary John. So in those fourteen days, Sherlock had tried to learn more about the new figure in his life.

He had learned that John's favourite colour was green, the deep shade not the creamy one.  
>John had received one call, from his sister Harry, in which she probably said the goodbyes she couldn't before John took off.<br>John had arrived two weeks too late because he had to move from Southampton. His parents were living in London.  
>He had an absurd liking of old music, films, books, anything.<p>

_He's a romantic then, _popped into Sherlock's mind as he saw a beautiful old edition of an Agatha Christie book.

'The sister dies.' he pointed at the book once.  
>John had looked at him and grinned 'I know. I've read it a couple of times. You cannot spoil my stories, Sherlock Holmes.'<p>

Anyway, it was not all suns and flowers; they had their difficult times too.

'If I ever see body parts in the minifridge again, I swear to god I will go to Mrs. Hudson.'  
>'People put chickens in there all the time, I don't see much difference.'<br>'THEY ARE BLOODY HUMAN THUMBS!'

Those eighteen days had been absolutely surprising, and if Sherlock had to be frank, great.

They went out once, sneaked into the secretary office to look at Jim Moriarty's files, which was pretty much prohibited. They almost got caught, so both of them had to stuff themselves in an old cupboard that smelled of paper, there was literally no space whatsoever and John's neck hurt for a few days. He loved the thrill though, and there was no point in denying it.

Except that they locked themselves in the cupboard and Sherlock had to try and unlock it with a hairpin, whose origins John absolutely did not want to know.

It had been pretty great for John too, of course.

Sherlock was absolutely brilliant. He was of course annoying, arrogant and cold at times but still brilliant. Initially, John had thought his roommate wouldn't want to make friends with him, but the other boy asked him questions out of the blue. He showed interest. He was curious.

One time, John was showering and Sherlock had banged on the door demanding to know his middle name.

John liked the adventurous moments, the way Sherlock cleaned up Greg's mess in chemistry, the way Sherlock thought and spoke.

John was genuinely interested and liked Sherlock's company, at times exhausting but definitely unique. It was something John felt proud for earning, in a way.

And he had this strange feeling he had known Sherlock for the majority of his life, although they had never heard of each other just a month ago.

And those eighteen days lead up to the present. This very moment. Where John was panting from dancing five minutes long and Sherlock had asked what the song was.

"It's uh" John steadied his breathing "it's called Come on Eileen. It's quite known actually, if you ask the right people."

"Well then, I suppose I'm asking the right person."

"Yes you are, sir." And suddenly an idea popped into John's mind. His wolfish grin appeared on his face and his eyes widened. "Hey, Sherlock."

"Yes, John?" Sherlock turned his head to him, putting the book he was reading aside.

"Ned Stark dies."

Sherlock took a second processing the words that had just slipped out of the other boy's mouth.

"What?"

"Ned Stark? He dies, man."

There was silence.

And silence.

And a little bit more silence mixed with the sounds of John's attempts at not laughing.

And then it came.

"_You miserable little-_"

"Oh, you didn't know?"

"_I'm going to murder you and believe me I can make it look as a bloody accident._" Sherlock grabbed his pillow and threw it violently at John, knocking him down to the floor. The blonde was still giggling and didn't even notice the pain from the slight _thump_ on the carpet he had made.

Sherlock grabbed another pillow and hit John's legs. Meanwhile John was holding his belly, his face going red.

_"How _could_ you?" _And from that, John learned one new thing about Sherlock; the guy really didn't like spoilers. "I don't even _read_ fiction because it's incredibly dull; this is _my first attempt _at doing so and you have ruined the _entire_ experience. It was mildly interesting."

John was beginning to calm down. "Sorry, mate." He managed between giggles.

"I really hope you are making one of your dumb jokes again." Sherlock swore there would be payback.

***

It was the early Friday morning that brought Sherlock to an idea he reluctantly chose to follow.

After their usual last period chemistry, John had wandered off to see some friend of his called Mike. Sherlock had been surprised that John had other friends beside him but he was glad he could have a moment for himself.

Holmes went quickly back to his room and searched for a pair of black trousers.

He found them in a ball between John's bed and the wall, in a very tight gap. He didn't even want to know how they ended up there.

Sherlock was a person that had a very strict sock index but could never organize the rest of his things.

He fiddled with the trousers until he found the pockets. He thrust his hand into one of them and found a useless piece of paper. In the other however, there was a similar piece of paper that was of slightly bigger importance. He pulled his mobile phone out and copied the number from the card.

The other party picked the phone up after the second ring.

"Dr. Mortimer?" Sherlock uttered.

"Sherlock?" was the response.

"Yes, hello, you are probably wondering why I'm calling you of all people." Clearly he couldn't call Mycroft, his parents didn't really understand what was going on with him and Doctor Mortimer seemed like a good enough person to call.

"Indeed I am, Sherlock."

"Well, I wanted to talk to you about John Watson."

If the context was different it could be considered as a gossip session between two girls.

If the context was completely different.

"What is troubling you?"

"Well uh…" Sherlock was contemplating over what he should probably say, so it didn't sound as if he were a lunatic. "I don't really know how to say this." He confessed.

"Just go ahead." Doctor Mortimer sounded fully calm.

"He is my roommate." came from the other side of the line. "In real life. He is my roommate in real life right now. He has been for nineteen days."

There was silence.

"How come?" was what the doctor had asked that day.

"I don't know, that's why I'm calling you." Sherlock answered exasperatedly.

"And he is the same John Watson from your mind palace?"

"Yes."

"Not just the name?"

"No."

"Not just the looks?"

"No."

"So the actual John Watson, the whole package?"

"Precisely."

"Well… that sure is interesting."

"It definitely is."

"Are you getting along?"

Sherlock thought for a second. Were they?

"You could say so."

There was silence again.

"I mean I've been asking him questions and all and ninety-nine percent of what he says is in accordance with all the things that I already knew."

The doctor sighed. Sherlock could practically feel him rubbing his forehead with his big fingers. "Sherlock I want you to promise me one thing."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow even though the man couldn't see him. He wasn't the best at promising things. "What thing?"

"You _will_ keep me informed of the circumstances?"

Sherlock thought it wasn't really anything he could promise but agreed anyway. "Sure."

"Now I have to go, I have a patient, but you can call me anytime you want to give me more information on the matter."

"Fine by me."

"Goodbye and good luck, Sherlock."

He always said that.


	9. Chapter 9

**А/Н: hello, kind readers**

**I know I am extremely shitty at updating, and I am so sorry. *gives you an apology cookie***  
><strong>I wanted to upload this last night, but ironically my laptop overheated just after I finished my last sentence and just before I wanted to save the document, which is amazing.<strong>

**Anyway, thank you overflowingly much for the 1,4k+ reads. It's just. Insane. INSANE.**

**I hope this chapter isn't too crappy or boring, I really do.**  
><strong>I'm sending you hugs and kisses!<strong>

**~red owl feathers**

* * *

><p>CHAPTER NINE<p>

Sherlock's phone buzzed against his leg. Annoyed, he broke his gaze from the tiny green cells under the microscope and averted them to the little screen. 'Mycroft Holmes' it read. How annoying.

"What?" was the usual conversation starter between the two.

"I just wanted to call to see… how you're doing." Mycroft explained. And Sherlock was positively disturbed.

"Mycroft, please do not. I am working. And _those _words coming out of _your_ mouth? Haven't you eaten today? Do you need to lie down?"

"This conversation isn't about me, Sherlock."

"Well, it won't be about me."

Mycroft sighed. He had had a long day. Sherlock could hear him running his fingers through his ginger-brown hair.

"What exactly are you working on?" What was with all those questions? They were regular, _dull._ Usually, Mycroft would ask him if he could take their parents out to dinner, or a musical or anything that Mycroft was supposed to do.

"Experiment."

"What kind of an experiment?"

"I am trying to discover which kinds of plastic used in school chairs can melt at which point. And you are keeping me from doing that. Just get to your point already."

Mycroft exhaled. "We both know that this school is exhausting to you."

"You're correct." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He shut his Bunsen burner off, which was to be considered as a big sign of attention. Especially when it was directed to Mycroft.

"So I made some arrangements." Oh, it was beginning to be interesting. "With the Yard, more precisely."

"Of course you did." Sherlock tried to sound as bored as possible, but frankly it was the most interesting thing that had happened today. Well, except for biology with John. They had dissected a bird. John made a comment that had made Sherlock laugh.

"And both parties agreed that you can… spend extra time with them."

"What exactly do you mean?" Sherlock wasn't sorry he'd turned the burner off.

"They have realized that they need your help with some of the cases. I, of course, think it is absolutely irrational to go to you for advice. But after I had spoken to Lestrade" there was a slight tone change in his voice at the name of the DI "we agreed, that you can cooperate with them for the greater good."

"The greater good? That's not exactly your style. I'll consider the offer. But I have one condition and so do you, I'm sensing." Sherlock was basically trembling with anticipation.

"You have guessed right. What I'll ask of you is that you attend _all_ of your classes this semester."

"You cannot possibly be serious."

"If I weren't I wouldn't make this tedious phone call. I need you to be remotely on time for the first lesson, present throughout all of them and leave the last lesson with a slightly irritated feeling." Sherlock could see the unattractive grin on Mycroft's face over the line.

"In this case, I want John to join me." Sherlock said almost immediately. "I want him in the Yard with me."

There was some shuffling on Sherlock's side. Mycroft considered.

"I think you are allowing yourself too much, Sherlock. What if he doesn't want to come with you? Your cup of tea isn't exactly the common one with _people._" He emphasized the last word.

"Oh, believe me, that's not the problem here. My doubt is focused on your arrangements."

"As if." Mycroft sounded absolutely offended. "So shall I confirm the suggestion?"

"I said, _I will consider it._" Sherlock was probably already planning out his first day in the Yard. Mycroft knew.

"Good." The line was cut off.

"Excuse me. I think I missed something. Where exactly do I have to go?" John's dark blue eyes were lifted from the horribly boring book he was reading. It was about the different types of flies in the tropic regions. A subject absolutely terrible to John's liking.

"Ah, John. You might miss a lot sometimes, but I'm sure you were able to understand maybe just a little of what Mycroft just offered me."

John didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or as an insult. He chose against both.

"First of all, thanks." He replied, a hint of sarcasm. "Second of all, I heard something about a yard? Are we breaking into someone's house? You'll have to enlighten me. Third of all" he managed before he could get interrupted by Sherlock "Mycroft made some sort of ridiculous to you statement and you thought he was joking."

"You're welcome, no and yes. One and a half out of three."

"Shut up and tell me about the offer." John turned around in his, after a couple of hours of sitting, now uncomfortable chair. He got rid of the book and put his elbows on the high table Sherlock was experimenting on. His face found its position between his fingers. It was one of those moments that felt a little surreal to Sherlock. Just like he had imagined them in his head, John's interest fully on him, even if he blabbered about some stupid thing.

"Mycroft just phoned me to make a quite interesting offer, but there is this one condition that is sort of hard to stick to." Sherlock took his goggles off. "We have an… acquaintance in Scotland Yard." Was acquaintance the right word?

John's eyes widened a bit. "Of course you do."

"And this acquaintance is the Detective Inspector, G… G-something Lestrade." He still didn't remember the name.

"Oh my god. Wait a second. Lestrade? He's in my football team." John looked so surprised. "Greg Lestrade, he's a fantastic player."

Sherlock pitied John, because the boy had found out about this just now, but didn't want to ruin the excitement all over his face. So he just said "Yes, his father is_ the _DI Lestrade. Of course it was Gregory, I always forget." Sherlock just dismissed the matter with a wave.

John looked too surprised to discuss the subject further.

"So, DI Lestrade has spoken to my nice brother and they have made an arrangement, that I can go to the Yard to help those poor, lost idiots with some of the mildly interesting cases they've got."

"Cases. In Scotland Yard?" John looked amused and frightened at the same time.

"Yes. Isn't that what I just said?"

"Well, okay but how? You're just a teenager."

"So are you. That's one of the key moments. Ever heard of James Moriarty?"

John narrowed his eyes. He _had_ heard of him. Of course he had heard of him. The whole school knew about him and Molly had said such interesting things about him. But what did Moriarty have to do with all this?

"He was supposed to be occupying your bed. But of course, that didn't happen." Sherlock shuffled a little from the microscope. "And I am guessing you must know about Irene Adler."

"Y- yes." John cleared his throat.

"The Woman, that's what everybody call her. She's ruined three families, has given important information away and probably knows the preferences of every important person in London. And not only." Sherlock shot John a glance. "And the only person, who has ever managed to frighten her, was Jim Moriarty."

John was absolutely neck deep into the story, his eyes and ears craving for more.

"Of course, there are the rumors. 'I heard he was actually the ghost of a boy that died here twenty years ago.'; 'I know that he's a terrorist' and all that rubbish." Sherlock mimicked the voices of the Year 8s who always told those stories in overly excited voices. "There is one very plausible story that he'd killed someone." Sherlock didn't sound especially fascinated, in contrast to John. "But the leads go somewhere else."

"Some of those leads end in Poland, others in China. Moriarty is, of course, older than us. According to a record, one of the only ones The Yard still has, he should be about 25 by now. And at 25, he already has his thread spread all over the world. South Africa, Colombia, Thailand, Russia, Germany, Australia, Bulgaria. All of the countries you can think of, that are native to people with some sort of power to them. He's got some cooperators even in the poorest countries of this world."

John was speechless.

"He didn't kill someone. He's probably killed a lot of people. With the help of all his institutions, of course."

"And… he was in this school? But wait, then how come he is still in the files, as your was-to-be roommate? I really don't understand. Everything sounds ridiculous."

"Well, of course you don't understand and yes, it does sound ridiculous. But there is the very easy explanation that the Jim Moriarty in this school and the Jim Moriarty that can rule the world if he gets to it, are two different people."

"Huh? What exactly do you mean?"

"You know, if you have as much power as he allegedly has, you can make yourself into a whole new person, even a one that technically doesn't exist. Although he didn't do a very good job, I mean, really, to create the image of a ghost-student at a quite popular boarding school is probably not the smartest idea."

Sherlock spoke a lot faster than needed, but John didn't have to struggle too much to keep up.

"So this Moriarty person is probably one of the most dangerous men in the world and on papers, he is supposed to be a student here in Baker and Stubbs. Great." John would have tried to sound worried, but it was way too interesting. "But what does this have to do with Scotland Yard or Irene Adler or _me?_"

Sherlock turned to look at John for a moment. The room smelled of burned objects and it was sort of unpleasant.

"Well, he clearly is currently in England." Sherlock sighed exasperatedly.

"Wait, what?" John looked a bit scared now.

"And he clearly is looking for me."

"What, why?" John looked very scared now.

"Because what else would there be left for him? Irene Adler herself is a very powerful figure. Together, they are more than anybody expects, although she is only seventeen, it is basically not impossible for her to join him. And The Yard has lead several investigations concerning Moriarty's matters, including a murder, which I have taken care of."

"Jesus Christ." John rubbed his eyes. He was suddenly way more tired than back when he had been reading the stupid book. "But why is she scared of him then?"

"That… I don't know." Sherlock admitted. "I have yet to find out, but it's only logical. Moriarty often makes partners that are scared of him. The culprit always searches a victim, not an opponent." That, he had learned from Mycroft but there was no way he was admitting that. "And of course I want to work with the Yard just because I want to get more information about this Moriarty person. If I'm lucky, he'll find me first." Sherlock grinned.

"Let's not hope that'll happen." John was positively terrified but absolutely enjoying the whole thing. A couple of weeks had passed between the two. They were always dashing off to somewhere, Sherlock gathering weird data for his experiments, helping a 'client' as he called them with a theft case, just doing silly little things. But this, this was a totally new level. It will probably have been the most dangerous thing John had ever gotten into. Probably.

"So, do you take the offer?" Sherlock suddenly spoke, snapping John back to reality.

"Hm? Oh. Well. I don't know. I didn't really understand one thing though." His forearm was glued to the table, his cheek felt hot against his sleeve. "Why do you need _me?_"

Sherlock didn't know. It was simply an instinct. He wouldn't have thought twice about it.  
>"I don't know. I guess I just function better with you around." It was sort of the truth. "But I can understand if it's way too overwhelming-"<p>

"It definitely is, but it is also the most interesting thing that has ever happened or will ever happen to me. So I wouldn't miss it for the world." John's head turned upwards and there was a sincere, although insecure smile on it. "I'm not a total idiot, in spite of what you may think."

"Well-"

"Don't you dare." John cut him off and flopped to the ground, leaving the hard chair behind. The chair was very tall and John's feet barely touched the ground when he was sitting. The low points of being short, he thought.

Sherlock grinned and put his goggles on again.

"Oh no, we are finished with that. No more molding chairs for today." He pushed Sherlock to the door. "I am exhausted." Before they left, John remembered one more thing "Oh, by the way, what was Mycroft's one condition?" he asked as Sherlock was turning everything off and was picking up his bag.

"I have to attend classes." Sherlock grunted. The idea of it was terrifying.

"Like, all of them?"

"Like, _all_ of them." There was a typical Sherlock eye roll. The sort of eye roll that said _'I really don't need this kind of rubbish, I am Sherlock Holmes!'. _

"One more reason to go to bed early." John chuckled at the idea of Sherlock in the morning. He was barely tolerable at day, what was left to the imagination for the morning?

"Or not go to bed at all, really." The science lab clicked shut behind them. The smell in the science faculty was always terrible.

"Thank you, really." John suddenly said and turned his head to Sherlock, who was still a little annoyed.

"For what? I didn't really do anything." The other boy shrugged.

"Well, for letting me investigate a Scotland Yard case with you.

"That really isn't as special as you think." Their shoes were slightly clacking on the tiles. Sherlock's bag bumped against his leg every time he took a step forward.

"It really isn't as ordinary as _you_ think." John protested.

"You're welcome." Sherlock said, genuinely. Not coldly, not uninterestedly, just genuinely.

"It makes me feel like I am less of an idiot to you."

"Well-" Sherlock said in that joking fashion he had to his speech sometimes.

"Oh, shut up." John grinned.

After some walking, they finally reached their dorm room.

221B had never felt more like home.


End file.
